From the living room came the sound of the door opening. Michael automatically reached for his gun but didn't draw it; already, it was apparent that whoever it was had no interest in being stealthy.

A moment later, Fiona appeared in the doorway. When she saw the Doctor sitting up in bed, her eyes lit up and she smiled. "You're looking much better!" she said, sweeping into the room. She sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch his face. "Still have a fever, though-but it seems to be going down."

"It's possible," the Doctor assured her. "Michael removed the chip, so at last I'll be on the mend."

Immediately, Fiona looked to Michael. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said easily. "The Doctor was able to tell me what to do."

"Don't give away too much of the credit, Michael," the Doctor said. "I merely told you how to disarm it; yours were the steady hands that actually drew it out!" He grinned faintly at his own grandiose tone, but neither was he entirely kidding.

"Done is done," Fiona told them both, then looked up at Michael. "I talked to Seymour; he's going to come by late this evening."

"Good. Was he able to find anything?"

"He wouldn't say over the phone."

"'Course not," Michael agreed with a sigh. "We might as well have him look at the chip, too."

"Seymour?" The Doctor interjected.

"He's an... associate of mine," Fiona told him. "There's no one better in the business for information on obscure weaponry."

"So, an arms dealer," the Doctor remarked mildly.

Michael hid a smile, seeing how wrong-footed this put Fiona.

"I'd like to meet him," the Doctor continued.

"Sure you're up to it?" Michael asked.

"Should be. Besides I haven't yet seen what you're talking about, myself. Might be we can compare notes."

"Do you have any ideas about the chip?" Fiona asked.

"A few, but I haven't examined it properly. I'll let him have his go, first... unless he wants to disassemble it. That won't do. To get proper readings with the sonic, the structural integrity has to remain intact."

"That still sounds like it can wait, to me," Fiona said. "Have the two of you eaten?"

"Lunch," Michael answered, as the Doctor merely shook his head.

"In that case, do you think you could manage some food?" Fiona asked, this particular question directed at the Time Lord.

"More than. If we're to have company this evening, best that I'm prepared, right?"

"Right," Fiona agreed, smiling. "We'll leave you to get dressed, then," she said, and reached down to take Michael's arm, practically pulling him out of the room. She led him to the kitchen where bags of food were waiting, leaned against the counter, and looked at him seriously. "How is he, really?"

"Pretty much like you see," Michael told her. "With the chip out, his recovery's been incredible. I've never seen anything like it."

"Time Lord," Fiona said, mimicking how the Doctor said it exactly, when he reminded them of the fact.

"Yeah. I just wish I had a better idea what that means."

"He'll tell you," Fiona said confidently. "Or show you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "Does it matter?"

Michael frowned, unsure of how to answer. He was saved from the need to by the Doctor's arrival. It was, he realized, the first time that he had ever seen the man confidently on his own two feet.

"You do heal fast," Fiona said admiringly. She caught up the bags of food and retreated to the living room.

"After a fashion," the Doctor agreed, following her. "Which, regrettably, isn't precisely the same thing as not feeling it. No matter."

"Chinese again?" Michael asked, opening one of the bags.

"Cheap and easy," Fiona replied.

"And spicy," the Doctor said agreeably, choosing a small carton for himself.

There was a sharp click as the door's lock disengaged; a moment later Sam entered the suite. He took an appreciative sniff and grinned broadly. "Right on time," he said.

"Help yourself," Michael invited, before Fiona could say anything.

"Don't mind if I do," his friend agreed, detouring by the kitchen to get a beer out of the refrigerator. As he came back to the living room, his eyes fell on the Doctor-and he stared. It was not that the Time Lord was entirely healed; to any who had not seen him before, he still appeared to have taken a severe beating. But instead of the injuries looking a few hours old, they now seemed to be a few days old.

As if feeling his gaze, the Doctor looked up and met Sam's eyes curiously. Immediately, the retired SEAL looked away. Michael watched the exchange, but didn't comment on it. "Seymour's coming by tonight," he said instead.

At once, Sam's attention reverted to his friend. "Want me on board as back-up?"

"If you don't have anything else to do."

"Even if I did, I'd drop it," Sam retorted. "That guy is bad news."

"Why?" the Doctor asked.

"What, being a gun runner isn't enough for ya?"

"Sam," Fiona said warningly. "You're not helping." She looked at the Doctor.

"Seymour is someone I go to for information," Michael said. "He's very good at what he does, but he's also..."

"Paranoid," suggested Fiona.

"Flaky," Sam said at the same time.

"And he's got a bit of a thing for Michael," Fiona added. "Either he wants him to be his boyfriend, or he wants to grow up and be him; I can't decide."

"Fi..." Michael groaned.

She laughed. "What? It's true!" She looked at the Doctor. "He talks about what 'badasses' they are together," she continued, miming quotes around the word.

"Can he be trusted?" the Doctor asked.

"Far enough," Michael answered. "He's also a little bit scared of me."

"Enough to hit you with a baseball bat," Sam remarked sardonically.

The Doctor's eyes widened, and he automatically looked to Sam for an answer. Not receiving one, he then looked to Michael.

"Just a misunderstanding," he said dismissively.

"Shouldn't you know all this already?" Sam asked.

The Doctor thought a moment. "Do you know what George Washington had for breakfast on October the ninth, 1782?"

"What? No!"

"But he's an important figure in your country's history, isn't he?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Nothing-and everything. I don't know what old George had for breakfast that day anymore than you do. The only difference between us is that I can go back and find out, if I really want to. But it's not written down, it's not significant. Now, if he'd been poisoned that day, that'd be different! It'd be an assassination attempt, a historical footnote. This is the same thing. Michael is fixed in time, but no one else around him is. Because of that, the only people I know of are the ones who are truly important to him and to what he does; you and Fiona among them."

"That's how you knew what my name meant?" Fiona asked.

The Doctor gave her an apologetic look. "Sadly, no. I'm just ace at languages, is all."

"Сколько языки вы говорите?" (How many languages do you speak?)Michael asked on a whim, in Russian.

"Все них," (All of them.) the Doctor replied simply, in the same language. "Although, the TARDIS lets me cheat at some of them-she can translate anything. Translates for me, too, which is dead useful. No muss, no fuss; things just come out as I mean them." He frowned suddenly, considering. "Unless I try local slang, especially in the past. Our notion of what's colloquial is generally off."

"But you are speaking English now, aren't you?" Fiona asked.

"Yes."

"And your language," she prompted. "Would you say something in that for me?"

To her surprise, he shook his head and very quietly said, "No."

Somewhat ironically, it was Sam that broke the awkward silence that followed. "But what do you know about us?" He pressed. "Other than that we're important to Mike?"

The Doctor shrugged. "It's much the same. What really matters is your relationship with him, that he has you to stand by him. Your choice to do so is significant."

Sam pointed a warning finger at the Time Lord. "You stay out of my head."

"Sam!" Fiona exclaimed, appalled.

"No, it's all right. He's not wrong to say so," the Doctor continued. "Some races don't consider that they're being invasive, and won't stay out unless they're specifically told to do so. Cultural differences, and all that. I've better manners than that, mind you. Although it might comfort you to know that I can't actually read your thoughts without physical contact-or you, mine, for that matter."

Sam stared for a long moment. "Too weird for me," he announced, as he got to his feet. "Gettin' a beer." Without waiting for a response, he headed for the kitchen.

The Doctor frowned slightly, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. "That... wasn't how he meant it, was it? Oh dear."

Fiona looked at him. "Every time I've touched you..." She began guardedly.

"No," the Doctor replied emphatically. "I didn't; I wouldn't. Won't. It's like I said; I've better manners. Doing something like that without someone knowing... it's invasive, it's wrong." Seeing that she didn't look convinced, he cast around in recent memory. "Look here. Michael's told me that when I was sick, there came a time I thought you were Rose. Did you touch me, then?"

"I... yes, of course."

"If I were reading your mind," the Doctor said gently, "how could I have thought you were Rose?" The question seemed to cost him a bit, but he continued. "If I were going to, it would've been then-no control. Instead..." He opened his hands.

Fiona considered him for a moment, and the things that he'd said. "I believe you," she said quietly.

"So you're serious about this," Michael said, studying the man carefully. "Will you prove it?"

"What, that I can control myself? Don't think there is a way to prove that."

"No. But show me what you can do. Take something from my mind, and give me something from yours."

"Mikey..." Sam said warningly, from where he stood listening.

Even the Doctor looked dubious. "Are you quite certain?"

"I am."

It's always in your best interest to know if the people you're dealing with have a unique skill set. If you can trust them, you'll want to know how well they work before you have to make use of them. Sometimes that means accepting a certain amount of risk, and hoping that it's worth it.

"Very well, then. Easiest way to go about this is, don't think about any of the things you want to keep to yourself-you'll only call attention to them. Instead, I want you to choose something... something rote would do nicely. Something that you wouldn't usually have to think about at all." The Doctor waited a few moments, then asked, "Have you got something?"

"Yes."

"And you're absolutely certain you want me to do this."

"Somethin' we oughta know?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "If you hurt him-"

"I won't," the Doctor answered. "But sometimes proof of concept changes everything."

"If it's part of what you are, then he's got a right to know. You owe him that."

"I owe him a lot more than that," the Time Lord replied quietly. He looked back at Michael. "You ready, then?"

Michael nodded.

"Right," the Doctor said, getting up and moving to cross the room to where Michael sat. He reached out and laid a hand on either side of Michael's head, so that his thumbs were touching his temples. He shut his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again, he was looking down and slightly past him. He frowned slightly, then spoke carefully. "Press the magazine catch; remove the magazine. Pull the slide back completely and hold open with thumb." The Doctor shook his head slightly as he dropped his hand, and smiled in bemusement. "A field stripping manual? Well, I suppose that does fit the criteria that I set."

"You all right, Mike?" Sam asked.

"Fine," his friend said easily. "Didn't feel a thing."

"You shouldn't," the Doctor answered. "Oh, it's possible, but being that heavy handed... that's poorly done, is what it is. It's ill-mannered to cause discomfort, never mind actual pain."

"But you can," Michael pressed.

The Doctor's eyes were grim as he answered. "Oh, yes. You most certainly can." He shook his head as if to clear it. "Right, then. Turn about is fair play, and all that. Again; are you ready?"

"Yes."

This time, the Doctor took Michael's hand and held it to the side of his own face, and maintained the contact. "I want to show you something," he said. "It might be easier at first if you shut your eyes."

Obediently, Michael did so.

Can you hear my voice?

"I can hear you."

Tell me what you see.

As if he had thought of it himself, an image was suddenly in Michael's mind. A young woman-hardly more than a girl-with shoulder length blonde hair framing her face. Her eyes were hazel, though tending more towards brown. At first they were concerned, but then her expression changed, and she smiled. Michael described her, described what he understood had to be a memory.

Rose Tyler. But it was more than just a name, more than just words. The rush of feeling that came; intense love, harrowing grief, and keen longing-

-that was suddenly gone, as if it had never been there.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor apologized, breaking the contact. "I didn't mean for that to happen." He rubbed his hands over his eyes and then through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles.

"Didn't mean for what to happen?" Sam asked.

"Emotional transference. Thought I had a handle on that; I was wrong." He looked earnestly at Michael. "I am sorry; for that bit, anyway. You surely don't need my grief!" He puzzled over his own words for a moment. "There's a pun there somewhere, innit? How you Americans say such things. No matter. The simple fact is... I wanted there to be someone to remember her besides me. What she looked like; that she lived, that she was loved."

"Who?" Fiona asked.

Michael looked at her curiously. "He said." Confused by her expression, he looked at the Doctor. "Didn't you?"

The Doctor tapped the side of his head with a finger. "In here. Last thing I said to you aloud before breaking off was to tell you to shut your eyes."

"But I did hear you," Michael said, half-seeking confirmation.

"You did."

"In that case," Fiona broke in, "who was she?" Though even as she asked the question, she thought that she already knew.

"Rose Tyler," Michael answered. "I saw Rose Tyler." He repeated it in part because he was still having trouble believing it-any of it.

"It's gotta be some kind of trick," Sam said. "When you were tryin' to find information about her, are you sure you didn't run into a picture of her?"

"I'm sure."

"N' he hasn't said anything about what she looks like? At all?"

Michael shook his head. "And even if you can explain that, how do you explain what I heard?"

"Simple. It's like some kind of ventriloquism; we couldn't hear him, you did."

"Standing this close? Sam, you're better than that, and you know it."

"Yeah, well..."

"Besides, how do you explain what he got from me?"

"Please, anyone diggin' around for information on you could figure out what kind of sidearm you usually carry. N' recitin' something like that is rote enough, don't you think?"

"And I could have just as easily recited the alphabet."

"Too easy."

Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Sam, have another beer."

Throughout the exchange, the Doctor had said nothing, not even to defend himself. As Sam stormed into the kitchen in disgust, the Time Lord also got to his feet. Instead of following, he stepped out onto the balcony, shutting the door most of the way behind him. There was just enough light to make out his profile leaning against the railing, head tilted back as he stared up at the stars.